


High Stakes

by lavvyan



Series: High Stakes [1]
Category: Discworld - Pratchett, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 07:33:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavvyan/pseuds/lavvyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> John just looked at the other man, who in the cramped small-town tavern stuck out like a sore thumb with his black robe and pointy hat, and raised one of his brows. Rodney rolled his eyes. "Rodney McKay. Do I get your name, or would that obliterate the baffling veil of mystery you shroud yourself in?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	High Stakes

It's been said, numerous times now, that the world is drifting slowly through space, supported on the backs of four elephants who in turn are standing on the meteor-stricken shell of Great A'Tuin. If a visitor were to look upon this world from a bird's perspective, they could see fires burning in the night, lighting up the sky over the big cities of Ankh-Morpork and Quirm, dotting the Sto Plains in a mad checkerboard pattern, twinkling solitarily up in the Lancre Ramtops.

Let's take a look at one of those fires, shall we?

+++

"Mmmm nmpf mmmhnnm hmhmph mmnh hpf!" Elizabeth the Red spat.* Or rather, she would have spat, if the gag inside her mouth hadn't prevented her from doing so.

A shadowy figure stepped out of the nightly gloom, flickering torch illuminating a scarred face.

"Now, save your breath, my dear. You don't have much left."

He laughed into her pleading face as his torch lit the pyre she was standing on, tied to a crude wooden stake.

"You and your kind have haunted these lands for far too long. It is time for us to reclaim what once belonged to our ancestors."

The man turned away, ignoring the screams of the woman among the flames.

Behind him, the fire rose.

+++  
* "You're not getting away with this!", one of the top ten among the Famous Last Words. Others are "You can't do that!" and "Hah! That's never going to work!" They are collected in C. S. C. Neverbottom's self-help bible "Your Death &amp; You IV: Do Notte Be Styupid"  
+++

John Sheppard was an assassin, like his father before him. But while the older Sheppard was remembered by his peers as a hard, professional man with a strong sense of duty, his son was considered something of a black sheep, sparing 'innocent victims' and generally bad at following orders.

It wasn't good for business. And the Assassin's Guild had not much patience for members who weren't good for business. If a single, stubborn cog was threatening to jam a well-oiled mechanism, you had to get rid of it.

But John was good, one of the best, and never let it be said that the assassin's weren't sports – if he managed to vanish from their map, they'd even stop trying to inhume him. Probably.

Right now, though, he was dangling high above the surface of Welcome Soap and its very unwelcoming cobblestones, tenacious grip on a rusty gutter his last connection to life.

"Look," he managed through gritted teeth, "I'm sure you must be busy. Don't let me keep you."

I ASSURE YOU THAT THERE IS NO PRESSING BUSINESS FOR ME RIGHT NOW, BUT THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONCERN.

John Sheppard was also one of the few people who could see Death.* In his line of work, that wasn't necessarily a plus.

"Well, if you're going to stick around, how about giving me a hand?" Rust was crumbling underneath John's sweaty fingers as they slowly slipped. An hourglass appeared in the air right in front of him, last grains of sand tumbling into the lower half as the gutter gave way.

I'M AFRAID MY HANDS ARE FULL, Death said, clasping his scythe.

John fell.

+++  
* His mother had always called it a matter of heritage. She just wouldn't say whom he had inherited it from.  
+++

Welcome Soap was, by day, a busy street, one of the main roads to the Patrician's Palace. At night, though, it was a little too close to the Shades for comfort, and only fools or foreigners would try and steer their carts through the darkness.

"What do you mean, my life _and_ my money?"

Rodney McKay had been called a fool a few times in his life, but only by people whose opinion didn't matter anyway. Also, he _was_ a foreigner, which was probably why the heavily armed thug currently trying to rob him had taken him somewhat by surprise.

"Sh'ddup an' gimme yer money!"

Rodney crossed his arms, completely unimpressed. This was going to end badly, yes, but not for him.

"No, you know what, if you're going to kill me anyway, I really don't see why I should make the whole thing any easier for you."

The thug grinned and took a step forward, rugged knife glinting in his hand.

"'S yer decision."

Which was when there was a loud, creaking noise, and an assassin fell on top of him.

"Oof!"

+++

Willem Knockdown loved his job. He had been one of those bullies who turned school into living hell for the smarter kids. Or rather, he would have been, had he ever actually _gone_ to school. Growing up in the shades, he had started to learn the fine art of being a thug at the tender age of five, working his way up through the ranks of Biters and Snarlers to earn himself a knife, the right to use it, and finally, his own street corner.

He also prided himself on his ability of add-just-ment. The cart had gotten away, but there was a thin robed figure standing in front of him. The guy held a long stick, but once you got close enough, those thing were no match for a sharp blade. And Willem was good at getting close enough.

He raised his knife.

"Yer life 'n yer money!"

I'M AFRAID YOU'LL GET NEITHER.

"A'right, the hard way!"

Willem took a menacing step forward, stumbling a little as his foot slid through something on the ground. He looked down. And blinked at the sight of his own body, lying on the cobblestone with a clearly broken neck.

"Eh..."

A light click, and Death raised his scythe, the long blade shimmering in an unearthly light.

LET'S FIGHT IT OUT THEN, SHALL WE?

+++

Miles away from the majestic city of Ankh-Morpork, a cart thundered through the darkness.

"Did anyone ever actually teach you how to drive these things?" Rodney asked, hanging on to the back of his seat for dear life.

"Relax. I'm just getting a little speed out of these horses for you." John clicked his tongue, and the cart sped up even further.

"For your information, they're mules, they're not supposed to be speedy. And I didn't have to take you along, you know."

"Hey, I just saved your life!"

"You _fell_ on _top_ of him! What kind of assassin falls from buildings?"

John flashed his involuntary travel companion a bright smile.

"The kind that has to leave the city very fast?"

SQUEAK.

Both men turned, staring at the tiny robed skeleton that was grinning at them from the back of the cart, waving its little scythe.

"The Death of _Rats_? What, do I look like a rodent?" Rodney snapped, and paled. "Hey, eyes on the road!"

"You can see him?" John asked, obediently turning back to driving the cart.

"Yes, of course I can see him." Then the words seemed to sink in. "What, you mean you can see him, too?"

"I wouldn't be asking you if I couldn't, now, would I?"

"Good point." There was a small period of silence, then: "Why can you see him?"

"I don't know, I always could." John shrugged. "Why can you?"

"I'm a witch," Rodney said, raising his chin defiantly. Waiting for it.

"Really?" John shot him a glance. "Aren't they supposed to be, you know. Women?"

Rodney sighed.

"It's a matter of heritage."

+++

Laura had always had her own, very special way to get inside a person's mind. It wasn't reading so much as… sharing, almost like borrowing. She'd slip inside before her victim even knew what she was doing, often gone before her presence was noticed. For that reason, people had come to her doorstep for years – no one did love spells quite like Laura, even if nobody had ever actually seen her weave her magic.

Her compatibility tests were short and always right.

As she tried to get into the mind of the man currently tying her to a stake, however, all she found was blankness. It was like trying to get underneath a surface of Agate, smooth and slick and entirely stone.*

"Why are you doing this?" she asked desperately, struggling to get free.

The scarred man smiled at her as he stepped back, raising his torch. There was no warmth or friendliness in his face.

"Because it's fun."

Another fire flickering in the night, one among many. But maybe this one was burning a little more brightly than the others.

+++  
* Not as colourful, though.  
+++

"Seriously, though," John said hours later, when they stopped in some tiny village in the middle of the Sto Plains to have lunch – cabbage soup – and pick up some sandwiches – a thin slice of bacon, a bit of tomato, and more cabbage – for the ride. "How does a man become a witch?"

Rodney sighed. "My grandmother was a witch, my godmother was a witch, and my _mother_ thought the best way to deal with a kid that wouldn't stop asking questions was to hand it over to someone who might actually have some answers. So she traded me to yet another witch in exchange for a bag of beans."

"Were they magic?"

"Well, they certainly summoned a lot of wind."

John laughed out loud, something he hadn't done for quite some time.

"What's your name?" he asked. "Since we're travelling companions and all that."

"Yes, about that. Not that I don't value your heroic efforts to ensure my continued striving for knowledge, but how long are you actually going to follow me? Because you're looking rather conspicuous, and I wanted to keep a low profile."

John just looked at the other man, who in the cramped small-town tavern stuck out like a sore thumb with his black robe and pointy hat, and raised one of his brows. Rodney rolled his eyes. "Rodney McKay. Do I get _your_ name, or would that obliterate the baffling veil of mystery you shroud yourself in?"

"Can't you read it in your cabbage soup?"

"The only thing I can read in this cabbage soup is heavy indigestion somewhere in my near future."

"Well, what kind of a witch are you, if you can't even find out something as simple as a name?"

Rodney stared at him, a strange gleam in his eyes.

"The kind that doesn't like cheating."

+++

Lancre. Home of Magic, Mystery, and Banana Soup Surprise. Surrounded by countries like Llamedos, Überwald, and Ankh-Morpork, it lies in blissful insignificance. Small, wild gods can be encountered in the forests, and witches keep a jealous grip on their territory.

Witches. Drawn to the magic of the Ramtops, they have been born and bred here for ages, pride and fear of the villages, protecting their land against those with harmful intent. Keeping an eye on the people, ready with a helping hand though sometimes only for the right tribute, those black-clad women are as much part of Lancre as the mountains themselves.

This has changed, now.

Someone in the Ramtops is burning witches, and they are not amused.

+++

"Why are we here again?" John asked as the cart slowly made its way through a dense, rocky forest, the road barely broad enough to let them pass.

"I have _no idea_ why you're here," Rodney pointed out, holding the reins tightly and shooting John the occasional glance to make sure he didn't try to grab them back. "I've been called back because of, uh… family problems."

"Well, then, let's just say that being an assassin didn't really agree with me."

"What, you suddenly discovered you didn't want to kill people anymore?"

"Maybe I discovered I didn't want to kill people for _money._" John flashed Rodney a toothy grin, chuckling as the witch-certainly-not-warlock-thank-you simply rolled his eyes. Again.

"What, is that supposed to make me nervous? I'll have you know-"

"Hello, my dears. You gots a place for a harmless old lady?"

A plump old woman had stepped out from between the bushes, grinning cheerily – and mostly toothlessly – up at them from underneath her broad, pointy hat. She was carrying a basket in her hand, winking when she saw that she had caught John's eye. Rodney stopped the cart.

"Depends," he said. "Is your homicidal cat around?"

"Greebo?" The old woman was already climbing onto the seat. "The little fellow's playing out in the woods."

She opened her basket and pulled out a bottle, opening it and taking a good swig. John caught the strong scent of apples before his nose shut down and his eyes started to water.

"Ah," Rodney said noncommittally, hissing curses at his mules until they reluctantly started to move again. "Well, I guess I should introduce you. Nameless assassin, Nanny Ogg. Nanny Ogg, nameless assassin."

"John Sheppard," John said, automatically turning one of his more charming smiles on the old woman and ignoring Rodney's indignant splutter.

Nanny leaned over to John.

"That's some fancy clothes you're wearing, young man." She poked him between the ribs, black silk rustling under her finger.

Rodney snorted.

"Friendly advice: Don't let her talk you into visiting her at home, especially not after dark. And if she starts trying to teach you songs about hedgehogs, run."

+++

They say that a witch's cottage reflects the personality of its owner.* This one seemed small and common at first glance, but if you looked a little closer and cocked your head _just so,_ you could suddenly see a complex array of tiny wooden extensions, inexplicable pipes and patches of sheet metal, undersized windows and odd little carvings, all concealed by a looming, twisted roof of thatch.

Inside, there were cats.

A good dozen of them, greeting Rodney as he entered through the back door, brushing around his legs and butting their heads against his hands when he crouched down. They paid no attention to John hovering in the doorway, unless he happened to stand in the way as, one after another, they filed out of the one cluttered room that was downstairs. There was a little kitchen on one side of the room, with a small table that looked like it might break down any minute under the weight of books, mugs, burnt-down candles, and various cutlery. Shelves with even more books lined the walls, and blocking the front door stood a monstrous desk, crowded with paper.

"How long did you say you were gone?"

Rodney looked up from where he was scratching the last cat, a small grey tabby, under her chin.

"Two years. And if you feel the need to comment on my living conditions, you'd better start thinking about where you're going to sleep, up in some tree or rather on a rock."

"Why, Rodney, are you saying you're letting me stay?"

"Better than being killed in my sleep." Rodney shrugged. "Besides, you're going to make yourself useful."

"I wouldn't kill you, Rodney," John said quietly.

"I know." Rodney's grin didn't hold any humour. "But maybe you can help me kill someone else."

+++  
* The ever-present _they_ also say it's better to kill a bird with two stones than throw three in the bush, but that's a different matter.  
+++

"Let me get this straight: you've come back here because somebody is killing your kind?"

"Yes."

"And you think that since being a male witch makes you an even bigger 'abomination' than the rest of them, you're going to be the next in line."

"Yes."

"And you're certain that even if you can't fend the guy off, the other witches are close enough to figure out who he is and end the whole thing."

"Exactly."

"But you'll be dead."

"Well, I hope not."

John stared at Rodney, who was calmly drinking his tea.

"Do you know something I don't?"

Rodney looked back at him with a very, very strange smile. *

"Well, reading the future isn't an exact branch of witchcraft, so of course it's never certain. But I've seen a possibility, yes."

"And I was there to save you, or what?"

Rodney's smile deepened.

"You were… there."

+++  
* It was the kind of smile a mother-in-law gets when her daughter's husband tells her he just took out a life insurance.  
+++

A week passed, and John was starting to think that dropping into Rodney's life was the best luck he'd ever had, even if the guy still insisted on calling him "Sheppard". John got his own small revenge by calling him "Rodney" whenever he could, and taking pleasure in the irritated little double take.

Baiting the witch was more fun than it had any right to be, and judging by the slight crooked smirk he sometimes glimpsed, John was sure that the other man enjoyed their verbal sparring at least as much as he did. They argued about everything: Rodney's impractical black robes that the witch insisted were a sign of status. John's equally impractical, at least for a life in Lancre, black silk clothes that the assassin insisted were the only ones he had, damn it. The way the back door was always kept ajar in case one of the cats wanted in. Or out.

No other witch had been burned since they had arrived in Lancre, and John found himself hoping that whoever sick bastard had been doing this had fallen down a ravine. Rodney's plan to use himself as bait was optimistic, to say the least. John wasn't all that sure that the witch would really know when to be cautious.

He was busy loading firewood into the huge basket-thing Rodney had given him, wondering if he'd make it back to the cottage before dark. The sun had already disappeared behind the mountains, and it was quite a way to walk. That and the prospect of Rodney's surprisingly good cooking made him fill the basket a little faster.

He flinched when he heard the voice.

WOULD IT NOT BE EASIER TO USE A CART?

Death was leaning against an oak, with Binky nibbling at the bark a few trees further.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

I'M ON A BUSINESS TRIP.

In the distance, a cat screamed.

John dropped the wood, already running as it clattered to the ground.

_Rodney!_

+++

"I told you the plan was idiotic," John said softly, gently running his thumb along Rodney's pale, soot-streaked cheek. "But do you listen? No."

He had peeled the witch out of his damn robe and carefully placed him on the bed upstairs, hoping that all the manhandling would make the man wake up. Unlikely, of course, if carrying him through half the stupid forest hadn't, but seeing him so quiet and motionless just seemed… wrong.

"For a bookish type, you're surprisingly muscular, you know," John went on, desperate to fill the silence. "Must be all that fresh air."

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

John sighed, resting his chin on his hand as he stared at Rodney. It had been a pretty close thing. Worse, it wasn't over yet. He had seen the figure by the fire before he had gotten Rodney off that damn stake, and he had recognised that face.

Acastus Kolya. Banned from the Assassin's Guild for developing strange ideas, ideological things about blood lines and superiority. Banned, because no one had been crazy enough to try and kill one of the best assassins there had ever been. The man might be deluded, but he was still dangerous. Too dangerous, maybe. The Gods alone knew why he hadn't tried to kill John right by the growing fire, instead vanishing into the night.

A gentle nudge against his leg made John look down. The small grey tabby was rubbing its head against the fabric of his trousers, making it crackle with little sparks.

"Sorry, but I'm an assassin," he said. "What do I know about healing people?"

The cat meowed, and nudged him again.

"I can't help him. I can't…"

He could. Oh damn, of all the stupid, reckless-

"I can't believe you!" he hissed, not that it would have gotten a reaction from the unconscious man on the bed. "That was your plan? An assassin to kill an assassin? And you couldn't just have _told_ me?"

The tabby meowed again, nudging him a little more forceful this time. John stood up, anger filling him almost to the point of bursting. He had thought they were becoming friends. But he had been used all along, hadn't he?

"All right, I'll go. But if you die while I'm gone, I'm going to kick your dead ass."

The back door made a satisfyingly loud bang as he slammed it shut behind him.

He should have become a farmer.

+++

A shadow was moving through the darkness, concentrated and with a purpose.* Mice held their breath as it floated past them, predators froze in the hopes that they would not be seen. The shadow made no sound as it neared its goal, but the night was maybe a little darker where it passed by, the silence a little deeper. Almost there now.

The shadow moved forward. And stopped.

"Number three blow darts as a mantrap, how inventive. Blowfish poison, I presume?"

"Come to finish what you started, Kolya?"

The shadow rose, turned, became a man. John was leaning against the cottage, one shadow amongst many, and Kolya nodded in acknowledgement.

"Not bad. Sheppard, wasn't it? You think you can stop me?"

"Actually, I'm pretty sure I can."

"Hm."

John was prepared for the attack, but not for its ruthlessness. He staggered under the first blow, wishing he'd paid more attention to Master Eggnog's lessons on hand-to-hand struggle. Kolya seemed to fight with complete disregard to his own health, leaving wide openings to lure John into making mistakes. And while John was good, Kolya had the bonus of experience. In no time, the younger man was pinned to the ground, Kolya's arm pressing down on his windpipe.

"The witches know who you are," he panted, struggling without success. "They'll get you."

"Let them try." Kolya pressed down harder, cutting off John's air. "The ancestors have spoken to me. They want these mountains cleaned of the vermin that's been nesting here."

"They're not the ancestors, Acastus," Rodney's voice suddenly rung out of the darkness. "You're just the lackey of a fairy."

"Liar!" Kolya hissed, and it was all the distraction John needed. He twisted, bringing his knee up to hit the other man hard against the head, grabbing for one of the blow darts that stuck in the ground not far from his head.

There was a loud bang, and then… silence.

John stood up shakily from where the explosion had thrown him to the ground, wiping his face unsuccessfully to get rid of the… stuff… that was sticking to it.

"Rodney?"

"I'm afraid that was me." A massive young woman, pointy hat identifying her as a witch. Of course. "I can fake voices," she added almost apologetically.

But John didn't pay much attention to her, instead staring at the other two figures that had emerged from the darkness. One of them was Nanny Ogg, and the other… If there had ever been something like a witch queen, this had to be her. Tall and thin, with piercing eyes and a face that spoke of past beauty. John fought the urge to bow as she stared at him.

"This ain't how we do things up here, young man," she said sternly.

"I'm sorry," he answered, even though he wasn't, not really. "But I will protect what's mine."

"Will you now." She stared at him a little longer, then her gaze swept to the cottage, and the little grey tabby that had somehow gotten out, watching them from where it was sitting right next to the fat girl. "I see."

She nodded, once, and then turned to disappear into the darkness. The others followed her, leaving John and the cat by the silent cottage.

+++  
* Some people are probably asking themselves, "If it's a shadow, how can you see it when it's _dark_?" And yes. That's the point.  
+++

ACASTUS KOLYA?

Kolya turned, staring at the dark robed figure that had appeared behind him.

"Who are you?"

Around them, fires broke out, their light reflected on smooth white bone.

GUESS.

+++

John sat by the bed, staring at Rodney. The witch hadn't moved once during the last three hours. If he weren't breathing slowly, he would have looked dead.

Next to the bed, the cat was watching John, tail twitching slightly. And finally, he snapped.

"Look, I'm sure this is fun, but I really need you to wake up now."

The cat yawned.

"Or maybe I could ask Nanny Ogg if she needed a catsitter. You're a female right now, aren't you?"

The little tabby threw him a disgusted glance, got up, and strolled out of the room without looking back.

"Hey!"

On the bed, Rodney stirred. Funny how John had never noticed how blue the other man's eyes were.

"You're an asshole, you know that?"

Rodney's mouth curled into a crooked smile.

"But you got him, didn't you?"

John leaned back in his chair, feeling like he could breathe for the first time that night.

"Yeah. I got him."

+++

Lancre. Home of Magic, Mystery, and possibly the most pathetic assassin ever. John sighed, looking at the cottage from his place on the path, a good hundred feet away. How did one romance a witch? For that matter, how did one romance a male witch that up until now hadn't shown a single sign of interest? Obviously all Rodney had ever wanted from John was his help to get Kolya.

Maybe it was time to look for a new home.

"Hey."

He turned around. Rodney was standing on the path, holding a ratty broom and looking at him with a hopeful smile.

"Want to fly?"

Then again, maybe he could just stay here.

"Are you sure you can handle that thing?"

Rodney sniffed and raised his chin.

"I'll have you know that I'm an excellent, uh, flier. Trust me."

John knew an offer when he saw it. And he'd be pretty stupid not to take this one.

"I can do that."

John grinned, liking the way the answering smile made Rodney's eyes go all soft. Yeah, he could totally do that.

Minutes later, the mountains were echoing with laughter.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] High Stakes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/431000) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)




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